Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Bike. Share. Taking your spondee and going home.

Let's talk about me.

Firstly, as I mentioned yesterday, I'm going to be in Philadelphia this Thursday and I hope you'll join me. I'm really excited about this, because there are so many things I love about Philly: cheese steaks, cracked bells, uh, other stuff... Also, some people call Philadelphia "the sixth borough," which makes about as much sense as calling GG Allin the fifth Beatle.

(It would have been pretty awesome to see GG Allin running around bleeding and making doody during this.)

Secondly, Boston. It's a city in Massachusetts where all the American history happened. It also has a bike shop called Landry's, and I'll be in that bike shop on Saturday, May 18th. There will even be a ride. The details are here. The event is being curated by Esteemed Commenter Daddo One, so if you have any questions I'm sure he'd be happy to answer them. (Though please observe proper etiquette by incorporating the word "scranus" into your question.)

Anyway, now let's move away from the subject of me and instead explore the subject of myself. This past Saturday I participated in the Rapha Gentlemen's Race. Here's what it looked like:

As I mentioned yesterday, Selene Yeager (aka "The Fit Chick") invited me to join the Bicycling magazine team for this ride. I have no idea why she did this, since Bicycling is staffed entirely by fit cyclists with ready access to cutting-edge crabon gewgaws. Given this, tapping a slovenly blogger for your team is like retrofitting stem-mounted shifters to your Di2 bike, or like asking GG Allin to sit in with your string quartet.

Nevertheless, I accepted the invitation because I am a Fred, albeit one in the autumn of Fred-dom. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross famously outlined the five stages of grief, and similarly there are four stages of Fred-dom:

1) Fresh

This is when you're an utter dork who's like totally super-stoked on bikes and you fall all over yourself because Shimano figured out how to squeeze another cog onto a wheel and you do stupid stuff like wake up at 4:30am to do hill repeats so you can crash out of a Cat 4 race;

2) Refined

This is when you're like totally too cool for school and you're keyed in to what the current proper sock height is and you think you're the opposite of a Fred when in fact you're just a Fred who has figured out that the key to roadie-dom is color coordination and acting like you have a frame pump up your ass;

3) Exhausted

This is when you're totally cynical about bikes and think the epitome of marketing gimmickry is Shimano figuring out how to squeeze yet another cog onto a wheel;

4) Dork

This is where you come full circle and return to dorkdom, but now you covet Rivendells and think Grant Petersen makes a lot of sense when he says it's totally fine to ride in underpants.

Presently, I'm hovering somewhere between Stage 3 and Stage 4 in that I've pretty much given up on racing and leg-shaving, but I still like to put on stretchy pants and clicky shoes and ride a bike with those curved handlebars like what they use in the Tour de France. Rides like the Rapha Gentlemen's Race are especially seductive when you're in this in-between phase because it doesn't matter that your USA Cycling license has expired and it requires stuff like wide tires, compact gearing, and large saddle bags, yet it's still Fredly enough that you can ride a crabon frame and you don't ever have to unclench your sphincter completely.

Anyway, in the days leading up to the ride I fitted my bike with wide tires and compact gearing and a large saddle bag and I practiced riding up and down hills, and as the appointed day drew closer it became clear from the weather forecast that it was going to be a perfect day to engage in the act of recreational bicycle cycling--and indeed it was. The temperature was a lovely 66°F, or [dothemathyourselfifyoucaresomuch]°C. The brooks babbled. The sheep bleated. The cute little houses were all cutesy. The ornery locals cursed when they went to the local café and like 100 smelly people in Lycra were lined up out the front door, emptying the fridges of water and the shelves of jerky. It really was a stupidly great day to be out on a bike, and it felt less like a 130 mile race and more like a great excuse to be out on your bike all Saturday with a bunch of other like-minded people.

The only blemish on the day was the guilt you feel when you're the weakest person on the team and you know you're holding everybody else back. (When I say "you" I mean "I.") At first, as I sat there letting my impressively fit teammates do all the work, I rationalized it. "Of course they're much stronger than me, they work for Bicycling and they get to ride bikes all day." Then it occurred to me that I also work for Bicycling and that my only other responsibility in life is typing the word "scranus" repeatedly and uploading images like this:

It was a humbling realization.

The other challenge was eating disgustingly sweet energy foods for eight hours, and by the end of the ride I felt like Brundlefly:

As for photos, I didn't take any since 1) I was too busy riding; and B) Rapha documented the fuck out of the day as usual so really what's the point? I'll just wait for the video. But here's a picture of our team at the finish, looking like a bunch of people who got too drunk together the night before and are trying to avoid eye contact:

He finds it terribly transactional and, ironically given he was viewed as a literary hipster, he views the Brooklyn hipster scene as populated by conventional posers,” says my man on the street corner. “He doesn’t go out as much as he did and has developed a reputation as a curmudgeon.”

I can't help feeling bad for the guy, and I really wish he'd consulted with me because I could have saved him a move. Brooklyn is to conventional posers what spondee is to...well, I still have no idea what spondee is. Also, this:

His dissatisfaction is encapsulated by a recent exchange with a local Brooklynite who was congratulating Amis on being upper-class. Came the reply: “I am not upper-class. I am a bohemian.” That’s just one adjective one can use about Amis.

What was he thinking? He's going to meet two kinds of people in Brooklyn: young liberal arts graduates who think creativity is taking a butchering class and uncovering yet another forgotten 19th century facial hair configuration, and slightly older people who are on the ascendant in their careers and are making the transition to "full douche"--and all of them are going to resent Martin Amis. They guy's old and successful for chrissakes! Why didn't he just move to Park Avenue? Not only would all the dowagers find him roguishly bohemian, but "Park. Ave." has great spondee.

Speaking of Brooks, (not that they care, but) I've blocked their stinking blinking ad. Am I the only one that has trouble reading while a frickin' miniature billboard is pulsing on and off in the margins?

I don't block all ads here, out of respect to WCRM, but abuse my eyeballs and you're history .

A while back, I decided to embrace my fred/dork status and I bought a seat pack and a frame pump for my road bike (I dorkily secure the frame pump to my top tube with velcro because I have one of those new fangled bikes that doesn't have a pump peg). Best purchases I have ever made. I AM a dork, so why not boldly declare it and embrace it in all its glory. And I swear that I get fewer flats now that I actually carry a proper pump with me.

"This is when you're like totally too cool for school and you're keyed in to what the current proper sock height is and you think you're the opposite of a Fred when in fact you're just a Fred who has figured out that the key to roadie-dom is color coordination and acting like you have a frame pump up your ass;"

You mean they don't have frame pumps up their asses? I thought that that's what gave them the strange walk when they headed into the coffee shop at the end of the ride!

“He doesn’t go out as much as he did and has developed a reputation as a curmudgeon.”

Have these people read any of his books? Dod thye know who he is? Of course, he's a curmudgeon. I mean his father is in the pantheon of curmudgeondom. Plus he has kids that are older than your average mid-20s hipster.

Dear Mr. BSNYC, herewith my dog's response to your four stages of Fred-dom, reproduced verbatim should you deign to consider his inquiry.

"Wait, 'totally fine to ride in underpants'?

So how does Petersen explain Recumbabe? Huh, Huh?

Bet he's got no answer for that."

I think my dog is just grumpy because he regards gentleman's races as examples of unfair species specific intolerance. If you ask me, however, I think he got DQ'd for deportment the last time he tried to pass as a gentleman.

But now that I think of it, I wonder how Mr. Petersen explains Recumbabe.

Maybe I'll try to puzzle that out while riding this afternoon if I can sneak away for an ascent of northern NJ's famed Mount Frederest.

Martin "booze face" Amis should go easy on the whiskey. It may or may not improve his crappy attitude but will certainly improve help his complexion. Also, go back to the UK you whining little bitch. It's d-bags like you that turned a once decent outer-borough into a such an annoying place.

Grandfather: "I see young Eben is off on another gallant adventure."Father: "Yes he is, Philly I think it is."Grandfather: "You know, I owe you an apology. You raised him pretty well. I was worried he would have trouble making his way in the world, but he seems to be

WTF was famous Amis expecting to find in BK? That all so elusive urban experience the hipsters are seeking? Not! Not when you pay a million bucks. Maybe if he'd moved projects...he'd get that shit eating grin smacked out of him. A true bohemian would turn the other cheek.

Another laugh-out-loud moment about Grant Peterson and riding in underwear. I was changing out after a 40-min commute in Florida and remembered his comment (para) "if you spend more than 2 min getting ready for your commute you are wearing too many cycling clothes."

I actually thought "Fuck Grant Peterson and his 20-min rides in 10 % relative humidity. I'm a cyclist. I ride 18-20 on a loaded bike and I sweat."

Take your spondee and peel off your scranus from the cotton underwear. I'll stick with good old petroleum-based materials.

Landry's - I'm guessing it's the one on the great frat boy ass clown bike silk road... I was thinking WCRM would be more interested JP - or - what portlandia would look like if it were actually "multicultural."

Agent Spondee: "I hate this place. This zoo. This prison. This reality, whatever you want to call it, I can't stand it any longer. It's the smell, if there is such a thing. I feel saturated by it. I can taste your stink and every time I do, I fear that I've somehow been infected by it."

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About Me

While I love cycling and embrace it in all its forms, I'm also extremely critical. So I present to you my venting for your amusement and betterment. No offense meant to the critiqued. Always keep riding!